My senses returned in stages—senses blasted away by a gun butt hammered against my left ear. It wasn't stars I saw when I looked up from eating dirt—just cherry-red four-inch-heels, matching stockings that led to a crimson skirt, and...I blinked once, twice...

    Let me start at the beginning.

    There I was enjoying moments with Leila, on her sofa. I about had her convinced. That's when that sickening little chirp of my cell phone put a stop to my advances. My nemesis has the habit of ringing at the most inopportune times. I swear I'm going to switch it off--permanently. I unwrapped Leila's arms from my neck, padded across the room, and growled into the phone.

    "Yeah, what now?" I won't give you the specifics of the other half the conversation except to say that Darlene had an emergency and that 'You damn-well better get back here PDQ'. Darlene is my partner and runs the office. She hopes to be a full-fledged detective soon.

    "Sorry, Doll, I gotta go...I'll call you sometime," I said to Leila. It wasn't that easy. She followed me. She grabbed the strings of my bolo tie, pushed the Scrimshaw adorned bull horn slide up tight against my Adam's Apple, and pulled. My head came down to within millimeters of her lips.

    "Aw, come on, Quill," she cooed, "just stay half an hour more." I peeled her off. Being a foot taller, I let her down easy. I grabbed my denim jacket that matched my pants, slipped into my cowboy boots, slapped my Stetson down around my ears, and opened the door.

    "Sorry, Leila. Duty calls." She pouted and insisted I get back as soon as I finished my business. I'm not sure she knew what I did for a living—we had talked so little. She's really a sweet number—dresses to match my western leanings—says she loves denim and boots—and does she ever do justice to what she wears—she's got curves where curves oughta be.

    I first bumped into—no, she bumped into me—at the Ian Tyson concert at the Ranchman's just over a week before. Since then it's been hot and heavy but with little reward for me—she's about as forth coming as she is closed about her life. If I was the suspicious type, I'd say she wanted something—more than my company but I enjoyed her middle-aged plumpness and eagerness—and since I'm middle-aged, too, I feel I'm right at home on the range. She's one neat gal a guy could take back to the ranch.

    From the day I met Leila, my grandmother's words have rolled around in my cranium like a couple of marbles in an empty coffee can. I can hear Grandma Red Squirrel, a Blackfoot chief's daughter, cautioning me in her language: "Quill, if your head is always in the clouds, you won’t see the snakes in the grass."

    As I ambled into the outer office of Detective Quill & Associates, I saw through an open door a kid sitting in the one chair in my office—a straight back chair—I don't want anybody to get too comfortable.

    "What the hell gives?" I asked Darlene—the 'she' that constitutes the Associates.

    "Don't get snooty with me—" She stood up, looked me in the eye, and laid it out. "If you're frustrated from lack of, I can give you more than you can handle—you don't need to go sneaking off with every dame that comes along. Besides, are we in business or are you just sniffing a round with your tongue hanging out?"

    "Okay, okay. I'm sorry. What gives with the kid?" I jerked my head toward my office. Darlene's denim shirt and slacks—slacks a misnomer—have frilly appliques all over them. She's a few inches short than I, and, I'm guessing now, but I think she's got muscle in places I don't even know about. If only she weren't my partner...

    "He's being threatened. Needs protection. Get in there and talk to him." I wonder sometimes who the hard-boiled, cold-hearted one is in this office—her or me?

    I strode in, trying to make my six-foot-four 199.5-pound frame look like it knows what it's all about.

    "My names Quill McIver. What's the story, Kid?" I stuck my mitt out.

    He jumped up, grabbed my hand, and just about crushed it. I then realized the size of his shoulders and arms—built like a young bull on green grass. I looked down on his thick black hair—he didn't have my paunch nor beer fat.

    "Tim's the name. Tim O'Leary Ortega." He hung on to my hand. In contrast to his handshake, his face was that of my two-year old nephew—only it was tanned. He looked Central American to me but he had the lyric of an Irishman.

    "It's okay kid, you can let go of my hand—I'm not going anywhere. Sit down and tell me your problems." I shook my hand to restore circulation. His movements were swift and smooth—he was half way through his first sentence by the time he got seated.

    "My twin-brother was shot—not killed--two weeks ago—outside MacKenzie Diamonds & Jewels on Seventh Avenue—during a heist. He and three friends were innocent bystanders in the wrong spot at the wrong time. However, when he died the police asked that it not be made public—because 'the police are on the trail of the gang'." He scrunched around in his chair—uncomfortable or--? "And to get to the crux of the matter, now I am getting threatening calls warning me to not talk to the policia—I'm not to tell what I saw—as though I was the one at the shootout. The cops won't give me any protection since I'm not directly involved—they say."

    He went on to tell me where he lives and how he has had to have a security system installed and that he and his brother are—were—enrolled as students at the University. Orphans from Nicaragua, they had an Irish mother. I asked what he expected.

    "Protection," he said, shaking. I wondered was it fear or a put-on. He said someone has been stationed outside his house for nearly a week now. Would I check it out? I laid out a financial scheme, which he accepted by signing an agreement, which he did not read, and unfolding a number of large bills from a roll that would choke an ox.

    That night I parked my tan Mustang around the corner from Tim's house and walked casual-like checking the scene. About nine I walked up to the only car on the block—jeez my feet were killing me—these boots are not made for walking—making me rather cantankerous. In addition to sore feet, I had to leave Leila. I was in a foul mood. I yanked open the door, slammed the goon to the ground, and slapped him around a bit. I asked him what the hell he was doing casing the house. He was slow to get his foot in the stirrup but finally between gasps he said he got his instructions by letter with a prepayment and a telephone number to call only in an emergency. After I got the telephone number I stuffed him back in his car and told him to head for the hills—and not to let me see him in these parts, ever.

    I waited an hour, then phoned Tim to see if any thing else had cropped up. I told him I doubted he'd be bothered again. Fine and dandy—my work was done for the night—I thought. I'd check out the phone number tomorrow.

    We, me and Leila, were just getting settled comfortably for the evening when that confounded chirping interrupted again. Getting untangled took me a few minutes—ever try getting away from the tentacles of an octopus?

    "Yeah—this better be life-saving important...okay, okay...I'll be right there...no you stay upstairs and if anyone breaks in before I get there call 911. Gotta go, Leila. Another time."

    I swear it had been sometime since I heard such carrying-on from a woman...wanting to know what's more important than she is...told her to dry up her grumbles—but I knew she'd be all warm and cuddly when I got back. I hate disappointing a lady.

    "It won't work—cutting the telephone line—doesn't screw up security these days." I gave a stage whisper to the hood up the telephone pole working on a line. "Buster, you had best get down here fast—and careful like—before I..." He threw his bolt cutters directly at my head. I ducked—the cutters caught the brim of my Stetson—my new Stetson—he'd pay for that!

    I carry a memento from Grandma Red Squirrel, a trusty coiled-up bullwhip she had made and taught me to use. I carry it under my jacket.

    With a snap this long thong of leather caught the hood's left leg. I yanked hard and he came sliding down that pole like a de-barking machine—leaving half the skin from his face gracing the pole. I saw him pull something from his belt but my whip cracked much faster. The whip broke the guy's wrist and sent his gun flying—why the .38 almost hit me! His audacity was only exceeded by his howling!

    "Now you should've known better than to try that—an ornery critter like you could get hurt. Tell me what you're doing here..."

    He interrupted his screaming long enough to tell me where to go—and he was quite nasty about it—the way he aired his tonsils—I ain't heard such language since the last man to feel my whip let out a bellar or two. I was reminded that I should give this chap a lesson in etiquette—my whip makes quite a snap when I want it too—almost scares hombres more than the sting does.

    "Christ man...what was your question?" He learned fast.

    "Whose paying your bill—and etiquette says you should tell me the truth."

    "I don't know..." That was as far as he got when the CRACK of the whip in front of his nose cut the air.

    "Honest...I don't know. I got my instructions by letter with prepayment."

    "Okay—what's the phone number? You better be correct on this." I cracked my whip. He gave me the number. It was the same as the first stooge had given me.

    "Okay—I want you to call that number and leave the message that Quill McIver is coming after the Boss. Now hit the trail at a gallop."

    The baby-faced kid was a little upset when I got to his room—he was still wearing his seventh-avenue Harris Tweed and hundred dollar slacks—even a white shirt and University tie. He'd had a phone call confirming his fear—of being the one who could identify the three hold-up artists, them that robbed the jewelry store and killed the owner. The voice told him he would receive a parcel—a payoff—to get out of town and stay out. I related my experiences of a few moments earlier and told him I'd have the phone number tracked first thing in the morning. I then got his schedule for the next day and told him he'd be shadowed at every move. He was not to change his schedule.

    At 1:23 p.m. I was supposed to pick up Tim as he boarded this train at the University Station to return home. I sat in the middle of the middle car of the train, right opposite the platform. The doors were about to close—where in hell was he? Too late to do anything else, I decided the only thing to do was to go to his destination, Hilhurst station, and wait for him there.

    At that last instant, an old man hobbled from behind a column and clambered in as the doors slid shut catching his ragged raincoat. He pulled loose.

    He had an old dirty tan baseball cap with deeply curved peak, overlooking bushy eyebrows, and a bushy ragged moustache that concealed any lips. Long straggly hair hung over the collar of the pale dirty green coat with gray worn inserts. His jeans, worn at the knees and ragged at the cuffs, hung sloppily over his turned-over heels of gray and brown runners. He had no stockings. He was one mangy critter.

    Like a hunted coyote, his furtive glances took in each passenger on board. He sat, tentative, ready to bolt.

    I wondered what an old relic like that was doing at the University Station. My mind switched to Leila whom I had just left, but my eyes wouldn't stay off the critter. Aside from some giggly high-school kids in front of me, we were alone in the car.

    The train pulled out: the relic relaxed. It was then I noticed he carried, half concealed by his coat, a water bottle partly filled with amber colored liquid—a regular old wino.

    Two stops later the doors behind me opened. I heard sharp heels click on the metal plate then click-clack down the aisle, toward me. A tall woman strode past me. The wino saw her enter and immediately turned his head full right to peer out the window—hoping to not be recognized?

    My eyes moved from the lady's four-inch fire-engine-red heels, up equally red stockings to a matching red leather skirt that ballooned like a ripe apple, taut over a pair of wide hips, and met a red patent leather jacket. The broad shoulders swung back and forth flinging her long blond hair in waves like the wind does tall grass in a meadow. Assured, arrogant, and threatening, she pranced with confidence exuding from every move. She careened toward the dirty baseball cap. When she was opposite him, she stopped, turned, and faced him.

    I could not hear what the pair of teenage giggling girls in front of me was saying, but amazingly, as if I was in an echo chamber, every sound the lady in red uttered carried to me, sharp and clear.

    "Your disguise, Timmy, me lad, won't work. Two of us in this town is one too many. Leave town fast or you are a dead man."

    It hit me...I instantly felt my muscles tighten like a spring ready to vault forward at the slightest hint of danger to my charge—surprise and responsibility wound me tighter than a stallion fresh to a lariat.

    Red stepped to the aisle, moved forward to the door, and pressed the button to open the door at the Hilhurst station. The train eased to a halt. She stepped through the open doors onto the platform. Tim leaped up and tore after her. At the end of the platform she turned down a lane with Tim following.

    Now the Hilhurst area is peaceful, well greened with lots of stately elms, hawthorn, and poplar trees as well as cotoneaster shrubs and hedges. Just as Red faded from sight behind a hedge and several elms Tim rounded the corner. That's when I first noticed Jimmy John, alias Limpy, following the two. I remember Limpy as I had busted him once for assault and robbery when I was with the City Police Department ten years previous.

    It was all happening too fast now. No time to think. I cleared the doors just as they closed. I followed the three. Now, it was getting interesting—who was about to do what to whom? Up ahead I saw the Red Lady turn left down a second lane, her high heels turning over frequently in the gravel. In five strides, Tim would be at the lane.

    "Hold it right there, Tim," shouted Limpy, his hands holding much too big a gun for a man his size. He was now about five yards behind Tim. "Put your hands high above your head. Don't turn around." Limpy moved closer. I moved closer behind Limpy. The coiled whip under my extended denim jacket dropped into my hand.

    "Look this way, Limpy!" I snarled knowing he would respond to that better than a normal voice. He spun around and fired wildly—the boom shook the neighborhood. It tore a hole in my new jacket. I didn't like that one bit! With one crack of my whip I sent his piece flying. I yanked his arm so violently it threw him off his feet. His yell must have shattered, for the second time, windows for a two-block radius. I yanked again on my bullwhip and as I did, out of the corner of my eye, I saw it...

    Too late...I should have known back-up-one would have back-up-two...a blow of a pistol butt to my ear...I tasted the dirt. With blurring eyes I saw Freddie Fry, alias Two-Finger Freddie standing over me.

    As my lights were dimming, I had a flashback: Sergeant McIver shot the gun from Freddie's hand, along with three fingers.

    Now all my lights didn't go out, but I lay there...eyes pinched but not closed...collecting my energies and strategies. When Two-Fingers laid the toe of his boot to my ribs I knew I had to take action. Squirreling around on the ground I reached for my shin and came up with my twin-edged throwing knife I had laced there—I flung it and caught Two-Fingers in the throat area just above his shoulder bone. Now that is one of the most painful places to take a chiv—and it penetrated—blood shot everywhere—shock hit the victim--he capitulated—like a steer with its throat sliced.

    I looked up to see a blur of action...then Tim standing over the crumpled figure of Limpy. Evidently, Limpy had recovered sufficiently from my whip lashing to use his left hand to pull his hidden single-shot-pistol but Tim landed a Judo snap-kick to his jaw just as a bullet kicked up dust—no more action from Limpy. Good. I needed that help.

    On my knees, I was trying to get my strength back. I'm getting too old to take these blows and recover instantly.

    "Lookout—behind you!" Tim yelled. Too late again, I felt a sharp foot planted in my back forcing me down. Why am I always just seconds too late?

    "Just stay where you are, McIver." This woman's voice was crisp, harsh, and final. "Get your strength before you move. And listen to me!" In a much softer voice she said, "We're on the same side." Slowly, I turned my head to the side so I could see what held me.

    That is where I saw the red four-inch heels, where my eyes followed the red stockings up to the red leather skirt curving up over engaging hips, and to the red patent leather jacket. This time I saw the face that went with it...it couldn't be!

    "Now it's my turn to say when, Quill!" Leila smiled down at me, a smile that lit up her whole face and made jelly of my knees—but in a different way. My heart sank—it hit bottom. I'd been sucker punched...What the hell was going on?

    "Just don't move until I tell you when." She stood with her foot planted in the middle of my back. I couldn't figure it. I just knew I had to get control, then I'd ask questions.

    "Why?" I asked. "Why you?" Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tim moving cautiously towards us.

    "Hold it right there, Tim. Don't make me use this gun."

    Maybe I'm a flapjack short of a full plate sometimes or maybe it's just that I was a bit dulled by the blow to my ear, but things weren't ringing right for me, and when that happens my desire to live kicks in. That's when I act on impulse—the impulse to be in command—to not have someone standing over me with a gun.

    As she swung her gun hand away from me toward Tim her weight shifted. Moving with speed recalled from my youth, I rolled over, swung my legs out in a chopping motion catching Leila's legs and sending her sprawling. Her gat went flying as she plowed a furrow in the dirt.

    "Damn you, McIver!" she grunted through her teeth as she spit gravel. "I'm an Undercover Cop—that man's the crook. Get him!" She indicated Tim. Again, I was too late. I'd let a damn Irishman con me.

    "Begorra, I don't deny it." Tim slipped into his Irish brogue as he swept up her gun and pointed it at us. "I took you for a brighter light bulb, McIver—ya wanker. But your switch doesn't work—too bad." Now I can't let you two go and blab all over the town—can I now? These other goons know better than to rat on me." He walked toward Leila, not paying much attention to me. I might be slow in catching on but once I'm in on the game I'm dangerous—especially when someone threatens me with a gun.

    "You thought you were pretty smart," Tim went on to Leila, "going undercover, pretending to be a goon boss in town. Well, I knew all along. That's why I hired dim-bulb here—he took my story—swallowed it whole. My plan only failed when he didn't shoot you. It was lucky I hired Two-Fingers to shadow us...to take out your dumbbell Limpy. Now I'll be leaving town with all those jewels and no one left to tell tales."

    I was on the ground still writhing around and groaning…all with a purpose—making a hell'va lot of noise as though I was about to die.

    "Houl yer whisht! And that means shut up to you, wanker." Tim was spouting off in Gaelic as well as Mexican now. "Caramba! Chingado! Ya screwed up proper, greenhorn."

    Greenhorn! I'd had enough. In one of my flailings, I whipped the .32 from its holster in the small of my back and fired, all in one fluid motion a rodeo trick rider would be proud of. Except—I missed—second time in my career I've missed. I saw the bullet whip his dirty sleeve.

    Yet...Tim dropped the gun…grabbed his stomach where a red spot appeared—he puked blood. As he folded like an accordion, he looked at me—his eyes watered and misted over—he gasped.

    "I knew you didn't have it in you...to shoot me...couldn't..." his eyes glazed over.

    That's when Darlene marched up to me, grabbed me by the shoulder and arm and yanked. I was half way to my feet and her tug just about sent me into the next alley.

    "Time you stood on your own two feet," she muttered.

    "Do you have a license for that thing?" I asked pointing at her gun. "And you're supposed to be in the office."

    "Oh, so that's all the thanks I get, is it?" She was miffed—and with Darlene that means MIFFED—big time. "Your fancy snake-skin boots would be silver-tipped-toes up if I hadn't saved your hide—and your lady's too."

    "Okay...okay. I'm sorry. Thanks. But what are you doing here?"

    "If you'd leave your phone on and if you'd check with the office more often, you'd know." Darlene can lay it on at times. "I've been trying all day to get you—to tell you about this Mexican scum—about those phone numbers, and all about your lady friend cop. Just remember this Agency is a two-person business. You better get used to it before I have to plant you up in Cemetery Hill." I escaped Darlene's wrath by picking up my Stetson, brushed it off, and tried to erase the damage the gun butt had done to it.

    Just then police cars descended on us—seemed like dozens of them—and an ambulance. After Leila explained to the officer in charge how she had conned me and how Tim had conned me, I was glad to escape the embarrassment in Darlene's car.

    Then I heard Grandma Red Squirrel: 'If you step in a wet buffalo chip, be sure to clean your moccasins.'

    "Thanks, Babe," I said to Darlene, "I'll take you to supper tonight if you'll forgive me."

    "Sorry, Pardner, I'll have to drop you somewhere. I have my firing range practice tonight followed by Criminal Law Class. Someone in our office has to be able shoot straight and know the law."